Bridlington
The long promenade still remains
As does the old lifeboat slipway
Descending to the golden sands
The railings corroded in the sea-salt air
The blackened break-waters disappearing into water
Stumps rotting in the slop of the tide-swell
The walkway threads its way
Around the old Spa Pavilion theatre
Where the seaside Summer season no longer runs
The TV comedians and variety acts long departed
In favour of the one-night-only tribute acts
But the cast-iron plaque is still there
If you know just where to look
Paying tribute to Wallace Henry Hartley
Principal of the once municipal orchestra
Ten years before he sank with the Titanic
Playing “Nearer My God To Thee”
And following the fold of the land
The harbour wall extends out to the fish-dock
Where trawlers and drifters once jostled for space
Before the Icelandic Cod Wars
And the death of the fishing industry
The wharves once crowded with nets and lobster-pots
The sheltered inlet now silted up and muddy
Hosting but a small collection
Of private yachts and skiffs
Yet still the dads and their lads
Go crab-fishing from the end
And the aging Yorkshire Belle touts for tourists
Several trips a day, voyages around the bay
Or up to Flamborough Head
But not too many takers on this rainy morning
Gone forever is the novelty rock emporium
And many of the old cafes
The back-street boarding houses
Proffering B&B or weekly terms
And the glorious Spa Hotel
No longer grand, but small and seedy
Converted into retirement apartments
Its sunny dining-room now the Residents’ Day Room
Providing views out across the swelling sea
And the lifeboat-house has moved
To a smaller, modern place
The picture-house is closed
The pubs are boarded up
And the streets allow only pedestrians
Or wither within the new One-Way system
Yet some things always stay the same –
The flashy Fish n’ Chip shops
Cockle and whelk stalls
Dressed crabs and winkles
The glittering amusement arcades
And the tacky Fun-Fair on The Front
With its tatty dodgems, ghost train and carousel
The ferris-wheel turning slowly, empty
The Kiss-Me-Slowly hats
The buckets, spades and windmills
And the wail of fretful children
And, there, in a dusty doorway
A dishevelled man crouches, down-at-heel
Shaking, shabby and deprived
His face once handsome
His spirit broken, lost and lonely
His faded glory an emblem of the town
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